Shanty
by Framling
Summary: AU set during the Napoleonic Wars (early 1800s). Duo's in the brig, and Quatre doesn't know how to get him out.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I don't own them! No money!  
  
Notes: This is set during the Napoleonic Wars (early 1800s), and hopefully will lead right up to the battle of Trafalgar. It is from the British point of view, and hence disparaging remarks about the French might be made. Not my opinions at all. As for yaoi, if it does pop up (I'm not planning on it, but you never know), I'll treat it as it would have been treated then. I'm going to try to keep it as historically accurate as I can, but there's a distinct lack of information about anything but the officer's way of life. The ship names are subject to change if I can find a list of ships that actually served in the Royal Navy. Most of my information on naval protocol is pulled from the 'Hope' Series by David Feintuch, and period information is mostly from the Sharpe novels by Bernard Cornwell.  
  
  
  
-Southhampton docks, England-  
  
Quatre stared up at the massive warship. The Valiant. She was beautiful, with the familiar Cross of St. George snapping in the wind at the top of the mainmast, hull freshly scraped, and sailors swarming all over her. He glanced at the figurehead and gave an involuntary start - the maiden there was slightly more. voluptuous than he'd seen before. Not to mention the lack of anything to cover that splendid bosom. Her face, though, was what drew his attention; it seemed to snarl a challenge at the waves.  
  
He wrested his attention from the carved wood with difficulty and started towards the gangplank. As he went he adjusted his dark blue uniform jacket and checked to make sure he still had all his silver buttons. His hand stole up to his throat to check for the midshipman's pips that he knew wouldn't have moved since he'd last checked them five minutes ago, and ended up pulling at his collar. He wasn't used to wearing his jackets quite this tight. He reached the top of the plank and saluted the officer supervising the provisioning of the ship.  
  
"Midshipman Winner reporting, sir! Permission to come aboard!"  
  
The Lieutenant he'd addressed returned his salute almost mockingly.  
  
"Permission granted, Middy. At ease. You'll find your personal effects in the wardroom. Can you find your way there or do you need help?" The Lieutenant's tone was condescending and sarcastic, and Quatre bristled internally. However, discipline won out over personal outrage, and his voice was properly respectful as he answered.  
  
"I've memorised the plans of the ship, sir."  
  
This time, the Lieutenant didn't even deign to answer, and Quatre was left saluting to a blue-jacketed back. He shrugged inwardly. He was, in his father's words, still 'as green as they come'. Lack of courtesy, however, was not what he'd expected. The words 'an officer and a gentleman' had been drilled into him from the time he was a small boy, and didn't seem to apply to the Lieutenant. Quatre, however, was determined to conduct himself as such, and set off to find his quarters rather proud of his self-restraint in not causing an incident. It was, after all, his first day, and he didn't want his first impression to be that of an undisciplined brat.  
  
A quarter of an hour later, having explored from abovedecks to the bilges, he found himself passing the galley for the fourth time. He was exasperated, sweaty, and he'd managed to step in something that squished, which he preferred not to investigate further. The sailors hadn't been much help, either. Not out of lack of respect for an officer (albeit a bottom- rung one), but they'd all been completely occupied with loading the last of the supplies and hadn't had a second to spare. A finger strayed up to tug at the still too-tight collar. A brief battle between willpower and need to breath ensued, with the latter finally winning. The top three buttons were undone, and Quatre took a deep breath and relaxed a bit.  
  
"Can I help you, sir?" Relaxed, that is, until he jumped a foot in the air, narrowly missing the deck ceiling and rotating a full one hundred and eighty degrees to come down with a thud facing the person who'd spoken to him. Who was currently standing at attention, trying hard to look polite despite the annoyance evident in the way he kept half-frowning at the sailors scurrying around behind him with bags of flour and potatoes. At Quatre's continued silence, the man raised one black eyebrow. "Ship's cook Wufei Chang, sir. Can I help you?"  
  
"Er, um," Quatre became suddenly self-conscious of his undone buttons and the disparaging way Chang seemed to be looking at him. He stood up straight and willed his sweaty hands not to fumble as they did up the offending pieces of silver. "Midshipman Quatre Winner, Mr. Chang. Could you please tell me how to find the wardroom?"  
  
In the back of his mind, he heard his father's voice berating him. 'Command, boy, don't ask. A common sailor does not need courtesy - indeed, he functions only on orders and courtesy only confuses him. He must know his place'. Courtesy, however, was automatic to Quatre. Especially since Wufei had offered no offense. However, Chang responded to his request as he would respond to an order, and turned to shout over his shoulder.  
  
"Mr. Barton, sir! The new midshipman is here and needs to find the wardroom."  
  
Midshipman Trowa Barton turned from where he was quietly supervising the sailors' proper stowing of the foodstuffs at the sound of the cook's voice. His presence was not at all necessary - Chang was quite capable - but the importance of the task required an officer's presence. His immediate impression, once he got past the back of the cook's head, was of gold and blue. He blinked his green eyes once, slowly, and looked again. At his second glance, he had to restrain a chuckle. The new middy, to put it simply, was a mess. There was rat mess on his boot, his jacket was rumpled (with the top button in the wrong hole), and the expression on his face was bemused-ness distilled into its raw form. His blue eyes held quiet desperation, and the poor man looked exhausted.All this Trowa noted without losing his carefully maintained poker face. When he spoke, it was in a slow, deliberate voice.  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Chang. Your name, Midshipman?" The new middy saluted, and again Trowa restrained a smirk. He'd saluted everything that moved on his first berth, as well, not so long ago.  
  
"Midshipman Quentin Robert Winner," - a quick check of length-of-service insignia - "sir!".  
  
"Well,Quentin - " Trowa stopped. The expression on the junior middy's face had changed. The man was blushing. "Yes, what is it?"  
  
"Quentin isn't my name, sir. I mean, it's what's on my birth certificate, sir, but I'm called Quatre, sir." Trowa blinked again, and Quatre blushed even harder.  
  
"Well, Quatre. There's no need to call me sir. I'm Trowa. Only first middy and above are sir. You'll meet him later. For now, wait here. Once this is done, we'll go to the wardroom."  
  
Before Quatre could respond, Trowa resumed his position next to the wall - bulkhead, Quatre reminded himself. Quatre stood next to him in as close an imitation of stance as he could manage. His jacket still chafed. After about five minutes, Trowa spoke again, but quietly.  
  
"You might want to rebutton your jacket, though." 


	2. Chapter Two

Part Two:  
  
- On Board the H.M.S. Valiant -  
  
It seemed an eternity to Quatre before Trowa indicated they could leave. He wasn't designed for discipline. People listened to him, but that was different. That was charisma. Trowa exuded an air of quiet competence, and stood unruffled throughout the entire watch. He hadn't spoken once. He hadn't needed to.  
  
Quatre, on the other hand, had fidgeted. He'd tried not to, but his hands strayed behind his back and started fiddling with the buttons on his sleeves. He'd curtailed that as soon as he'd noticed, but then he'd started humming, gaining some odd looks from passing seamen. The fiddling had resumed - it was at least quiet! Currently, he'd discovered a loose thread on the inside of his left sleeve, and was engaged in not pulling it. It wrapped nicely around his index, cutting off the circulation, and then wove in a complex pattern through his fingers, but he hadn't pulled it once, mainly because he didn't enjoy sewing very much, and therefore wasn't particularly good at it. He thought it might be attached to a cuff button, which was another reason for not pulling it. If he had to replace the silver, it would come out of his own pay.  
  
Throughout the watch, his thoughts had been in a turmoil. He felt awkward and out of place. His knowledge was better suited to discussion of poetry, or formal dinners, or business, or dancing, not supervising tars who didn't need supervision. The only thing he knew of war was the art of fencing, which wasn't likely to be much use aboard a ship of the line. He had no clue how to fire a ship's gun, let alone one of the six huge carronades possessed by the Valiant. He knew regulations, specifications, everything that could be learned from a book. He hadn't known half of what he'd learned since setting foot on the gangplank. Hadn't known how the ship's speed could be improved by scraping the barnacles off of her copper bottom. Hadn't known how the pumps in the bilges had to be kept manned and working at all times to stop the ship from filling with water. Hadn't realised how those same bilges would be infested with rats and stink of human excrement and unwashed bodies. As a result, he felt even more incompetent and nervous.  
  
Those thoughts belonged to the past now, though. Right now he was too occupied with not bashing his head as he followed Midshipman Barton - Trowa, he reminded himself - through the ship to the stern, where the officer's quarters were located. He had no idea how he'd managed to get so lost.  
  
"This is the wardroom. Lieutenant's cabins on the right, middies sleep on the left. We're junior so we'll be sharing."  
  
As small as the wardroom was, the midshipman's cabins were scarcely larger than kennels. Beyond the door Trowa opened, two cots hung from the ceiling. Each was exactly large enough to accommodate a man, and there was all of two inches between them. Beneath were two chests, presumably containing blankets and spare uniforms. The one on the left also had a rectangular case attached to the deck underneath it, and Quatre smiled. All the personal possessions he loved, he'd brought with him in that case. Only one thing, but it was better than anything else. Trowa's half of the tiny cabin was completely empty except for the neatly made cot and closed chest. Quatre turned around to comment, but Trowa was gone.  
  
"T-trowa?"  
  
"Sorry, middy. Just me." The drawling voice came from the door of another midshipman's cabin. "Stand to attention when addressed by your superior, middy. Name?" A hulking figure detached itself from the darkness and moved towards the lantern's feeble circle of light.  
  
Quatre backed up a step involuntarily.  
  
"Quatre."  
  
"Stand to, I said! And report correctly. You do know how, I suppose?" Spine stiff, chest out, arms ramrod-straight, chin up, and knees shaking, Quatre blurted out:  
  
"Sir, Midshipman Quentin Robert Winner, sir!"  
  
"Very good, Winner. Stay at attention." The huge shadow slowly circled the diminutive midshipman, who was quaking in his boots. Quatre could feel the man's scathing gaze traveling from his toes to the top of his blond head.  
  
"I, Midshipman, am First Midshipman Mueller. I am your direct superior, and responsible for discipline among the middies. If you do anything wrong, I am punished. And if I get punished," he paused for a moment, leering. "You get punished. Is that understood, Winner?"  
  
"Y-yes." A slap landed on Quatre's cheek, snapping his head around.  
  
"I said, is that understood, Middy?"  
  
"Yes, Sir!"  
  
"Better. You obey my orders, you address me as sir, you don't bring up matters between midshipmen in front of superior officers, and you keep your nose damn clean, and we should get along just fine, Winner. Now, clean yourself up. We're sailing soon, and Captain Noventa will want all hands. Move!"  
  
Quatre moved. He brushed his jacket and wiped the rat excrement from his boot, shined his buttons and combed his hair, all the while under Mueller's glowering watch. He received a cuff on the back of his head for his troubles. "Make it faster, next time. Now come!" Without a backwards glace, Mueller strode off, not checking to see if Quatre was keeping up or not. As a result, Quatre had to trot along behind him, trying to do up the cuff buttons on his jacket and avoid hitting his head at the same time. By the time they reached the poop deck where the Captain stood next to the wheel and the crew, all six-hundred-odd of them, stood at attention in ranks, he was sporting a new bruise above his left eye. He took his place in ranks next to Trowa, and listened.  
  
"We sail for the French harbour. The blockade there is suffering and needs reinforcements and supplies. We are both. We are to escort the cargo vessels then take up our station. Now bow heads for the Ship's Prayer." There was a slight rustling as hats were doffed, then Noventa continued. "Today is August the Ninth, in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Five, on board the H.M.S. _Valiant_. We ask You to bless this ship, bless this voyage, and bless those aboard. Amen."  
  
"Amen," Quatre mouthed. He'd need all the blessing he could get.  
  
A.N. As far as I know, that was the traditional Ship's Prayer, and still is. I got it from 'Midshipman's Hope', by David Feintuch. Thanks to Bryony for reviewing - if you spot any anachronisms or anything, tell me! 


	3. Chapter Three

AN: **Brandishes her poetic license** Midshipmen in the Royal Navy, at the time, would not actually have been as old as mine are. A young gentleman would join the Navy at the age of about twelve or thirteen, as a midshipman. Only rarely did people with no title or wealth become officers. I'd love any ideas for how Trowa made middy, if anyone has any.  
  
Caution: I know I said I wouldn't have pairings. One has reared its head, though. 2+H. not my favorite, but I needed it this way!  
  
In answer to reviews: Bryony, I'm not telling about Noventa. You'll have to wait to find out, just like me :o). Actually, I do know. I'm just being furtive. MUAHAHAHA. And yup, poor Q. I've never written Quatre fic before. I hope I get him right. Chambers, again, yup, poor Q! lol. Glad you think it's original - it's my favorite time period, and while I do know more about Wellington's campaigns than Nelson's, I couldn't figure out how they'd all be infantymen. Kasra - I'm curious to know where I'm going too! I have the beginning, the middle, and the end in my head. but no clue how to get from one to the other. Thanks so much for reviewing! You guys make my day.  
  
Next part - Duo sidestory/prequel thingie.  
  
Part Three:  
  
-Southhampton Docks, England -  
  
"C'mere, wench!"  
  
Hilde squealed and kicked her feet as strong arms grabbed her around the waist from behind and spun her around. Skirts swirling around daringly exposed ankles as she was set down, she berated her attacker, who retreated behind her the finger suddenly waving under his nose.  
  
"You stop that now, Mr. Maxwell! Unless you've suddenly come up with riches, which I very much doubt, it's bad for business. You know that. Or should I start calling you Lord Maxwell of the Gutter Outside the Sailor's Rest?" 'Mr. Maxwell' just grinned at her.  
  
" 'S'at all, Hilde luv? No 'Duo I'll miss you', no 'I'll be faithful', nuttin? Jus' bizness, izzit? 'M hurt." He clasped his hands to his chest melodramatically and feigned a trembling lip. "Ye've cut me to the quick, so ye have. Give us a kiss, lass." That being said, he pulled her closer, ducked his head, and kissed her full on the mouth. There was a muffled 'business', but then Hilde returned the kiss with interest. There were never any customers at this time in the morning, and only ladies worried about who might see a kiss. A lady she wasn't, and the man she was in love was was about as far from a lord as it was possible to be - although she'd made a few lords very happy.  
  
Duo's companion coughed, averting his blue eyes from the scandalous goings-on in front of him.  
  
"Maxwell. Time." The seaman broke off his kiss with the greatest of reluctance, and Hilde kept a proprietory hand on his long braid.  
  
"Aw, give us a mo, Heero.Tell you what - y' go on ahead, 'n I'll catch up right quick-like. I'm tryin' to say farewell to me dearest luv, 'ere." Hilde's hands were doing interesting things to his chest, and he wanted to return his full attention to her.  
  
"Hn." Heero didn't move, and Duo sighed.  
  
"It's outrank me he does, luv. Not an officer, mind, but 'e'll put up a right stink if'n I stay." He sat her down on a nearby crate of gunpowder and knelt at her feet. Throwing back his head, he sang out in a surprisingly tuneful baritone:  
  
"Well now me love, I must go and leave you; though the waves do loom high above  
  
Well I will face them them with greater pleasure that I've been with me only love"  
  
He leapt to his feet, kissed her again, and strode off, singing loudly.  
  
"Well I'm a rover, seldom sober, I'm a rover of high degree But when I'm drinkin', I'm always thinkin' How to gain my love's company."  
  
Beside him, Heero took no notice of him and walked on in stony silence. While Duo half-danced, Heero's steps were the model of military correctness. He marched like an infantryman, despite having joined the Royal Navy. Hilde watched them go, her heart pounding. She'd return to the Sailor's Rest as soon as she could breathe again. If she'd had the right type of family, her mother would have warned her about men like her Duo. He was. a rogue. A scoundrel. A wastrel. When his ship was docked, he spent his days sleeping - as often outside the inn as in it - and his nights drumming and singing for drinks and money. She didn't know what he was trying to forget, and she hadn't asked more than once. He'd scared her that once.  
  
But for all that. he'd never once tumbled her. She'd offered. He'd given her money, yes, but never taken what he paid for. Not once. He said she should be treated like a lady, and did so. He paid the money so she could be a lady for a night, not have to work. They slept in the same room to keep up appearances, but he took the floor and let her have the bed to herself. For a scoundrel. he was more of a gentleman than the lords. She still had bruises from one of the Valiant's officers - a lieutenant who hadn't given his name. Duo had been livid.  
  
She'd miss him. She'd miss his pig-headedness. She'd miss the singing that managed to catch a room even when he was drunk. She'd miss his rum- soaked kisses. She'd even miss the way he woke her up in the middle of the night praying he wouldn't be sick in the morning. She believed in God, of course. She wasn't sure people like her got prayers answered, but her lips moved anyway.  
  
"Keep him safe."  
  
Hilde got up and walked away. She didn't look back. There was business to attend to in the evening, and she had to get some sleep.  
  
Duo, on the other hand, wanted to look back. He was still singing, but he didn't want to leave Southhampton. He said as much to Heero, who stopped and looked at him.  
  
"Idiot. It's her you don't want to leave. You're better off on a ship."  
  
"I could smuggle 'er on." Not a chance. The seamen could only bring so many women before the officers noticed.  
  
"But you won't," Heero stated, "Not her." Duo sighed.  
  
"No. I wouldn' put 'er through tha'." Sailors tended to be somewhat rough. Hilde was more than a plaything. If she died it would matter. Maybe not to the world in general, but to him.  
  
But enough of that. Duo was a rover, with a rover's heart. Enlisting had been more than convenient at the time, but something inside him told him he'd have done it anyway. There were very few other jobs for such as him.  
  
The pair came in sight of the H.M.S. Valiant, and Duo's pensive expression broke into a grin. His ship. She stank. She was swarming with sailors. He'd hate her in a month. But right now, she was the most beautiful thing (almost) in his world. Her planks gleamed. She rode high in the water, exposing her freshly scraped copper bum. She'd fly over the water, and he'd fly with her.  
  
But first, he had to load her. He grabbed a heavy sack of flour and heaved it onto his shoulders, and walked head-down past the Lieutenant on deck, hoping to pass anonymously. No such luck.  
  
"Seaman Maxwell! Able Seaman Yuy!" He put the sack down and came to attention, saluting smartly as Heero did the same beside him.  
  
" 'Tenant Alex, sir!" Duo listened for the expected 'at ease', but none came, and he remained at attention while Alex prowled around him, sniffing his breath for signs of alcohol and generally looming in a disapproving way. The seaman was devoutly happy he'd not drunk the night before, and said a small prayer of thanks for Hilde. Good lass, that one. He was sweating, and cursed his friend's ability to withstand scrutiny with no more difficulty than he had pissing. An eternity later, Alex spoke.  
  
  
  
"Yuy, carry on. Maxwell, you are late. You are disheveled. Furthermore, if my eyes did not deceive me, you are late because you were consorting with a whore." Duo bristled, but restrained himself. Officer or not, the man had no right to talk that way about Hilde. Especially since he'd been one of her customers himself, and he had his suspicions about the purple bruises on her arms. Alex caught the anger smouldering in Duo's eyes. "Is something wrong, Seaman? Do you wish to speak?"  
  
"No, Sir." Duo ground out. Disciplined. He had to be disciplined.  
  
"Very well. You are reassigned to bilge duty until further notice. Take that flour to the galley, then proceed to the bilges and relieve Seaman Crowley. Dismissed."  
  
"Aye-aye, sir."  
  
Bilge duty. He'd had worse. You got used to the smell, and eventually your arms got numb and didn't ache anymore manning the pumps, which had to be kept going all the time. Even the English couldn't build a watertight ship. Men on bilge duty could often scavenge extra rum rations from pitying comrades. Granted, they were usually rotated through the most unpleasant task on the ship. Granted, he'd rather be lookout. But he'd take what he got. He had no choice.  
  
Without the Navy, he'd be hanging. 


	4. Sidestory: Ballad

Disclaimer and A.N.:  
  
They still aren't mine. If they were, do you honestly think Zechs would wear that much clothing?  
  
A bodhran is a kind of drum. You hold it in one hand, and hold the stick in the other, and hit with both ends of the stick. It's my favorite sort of instrument! It can be merry, mournful, powerful. anything. The percussion equivalent of a violin, IMO. Both of the songs here are traditional, but the versions are by Great Big Sea (whose website is at greatbigsea.ca , and whom I'm going to see in November). Their music inspired the whole fic.  
  
Reviewers: Relwarc: Yup, he has got a lot of work to do. I've figured out what he's done, though, and it's actually helped me with a good scene *g* . Bryony, You're right about the accent. I might even go back and take it out. It's a pain to write, even though it's fun. (I think the word you're looking for is onomatopoeia :o) ).Glad you liked the 2+H - here's some more!  
  
  
  
The sailor trudged across the cobbles by the docks of Southampton. He could feel each one through the holes in his boots, and prayed fervently that he didn't step in anything.  
  
"Shite." No such luck. He decided against lifting his foot to examine whatever was seeping through onto his left foot. He'd probably regret it. He stepped carefully around the rest of the puddle and strolled off, braid swinging jauntily behind him. He slowed down every time he passed an inn, listening carefully.  
  
The King's Head. Merry enough, but no.  
  
The Dancing Damsel. Not a chance.  
  
The Priest's Cassock. The noises coming from within were promising, but a place with a name like that probably watered its drinks. And Duo Maxwell wanted to get drunk tonight. So he continued, listening intently until he came to a board painted with a leering sailor and a buxom wench. The Sailor's Rest. He grinned. The sailor didn't seem as if he was going get any rest at all. Best of all, he heard raucous laughter, saucy high-pitched voices, and no music. Adjusting the bodhran across his back, he shouldered aside the door and stepped in.  
  
He presented quite a picture as he stood in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim flicker of the oil lamps. Small he was, but the way he stood spoke of strength, and his eyes, even squinting as they were, presented a startling contrast to dark hair and wind-tanned skin. A voice called out from one of the back tables.  
  
"Ha! They're letting babies onto the ships now, are they? Try the Cassock, lad, the whores give lessons for beginners!"  
  
His eyes snapped over to the shadows, and the heckler cringed back into the shadows. Something about those eyes was dangerous. But then the sailor grinned.  
  
"Mustn't be up ta much, then, if'n they can't get the good 'uns. Thinkin' of spendin' some time there?"  
  
From the back corner, there was silence, and Duo threw his head back and laughed. He also ducked out of the way as a large man lumbered towards him at high speed, neatly dodging a fist. The heckler overbalanced and fell to the floor with a thud. Duo poked him with a boot tip, eliciting no response, then chuckled and unslung the bodhran.  
  
"Innkeep?" Spying a burly man in an apron, he nodded and held up the drum. "Board for the night?" At then man's nod, he set himself up on a table, mug within easy reach. At first nobody listened, but the drumbeat grew faster and faster until the entire common room was staring at the blur of his hand, which was keeping perfect time as Duo opened his mouth and sang out,  
  
"Oh won't you come along with me, love Come along with me! Come for one night and be my wife And come along with me!"  
  
His audience got progressively drunker and more merry, laughing at the hapless butcher who paid a sovereign for a night's rollicking, then asked for his change in the morning. They called out suggestions, getting dirtier as the song progressed, and almost spilled their drinks laughing when the singer reached the last part. The butcher returned to the tavern:  
  
"He wasn't in there very long when his fair maid he did see And she brought forth a baby three months old and placed it on his knee When he saw the baby, he began to curse and swear And he said unto that fair young maid, "Why did you bring him here?!" "Well he is your own, kind sir", she said, "Do not think me strange, Well that sovereign that you gave to me, I gives you back your change!!".  
  
Duo sang late into the night, unaware that he was being watched by one of the serving girls, who every so often disappeared upstairs with one of the sailors. When downstairs, her hips swung saucily in time with the music and she fairly danced across the room, smoothly enough to not spill anything, but with a bounce in her step.  
  
The night wore on, and the patrons gradually moved either upstairs or out the door, until there was only Duo, sitting on a table, well on his way to being drunk, and the tavern workers clearing up around him as he sang. He switched to a ballad, beating out a slow steady rhythm on the bodhran.  
  
"A nobleman's fair daughter Went down a narrow lane And met with Captain Wedderburn, The keeper of the gate. 'Now my pretty fair maid, If it wasn't for the law, You and I in a bed might lie, Roll me over next to the wall, Roll me over next to the wall'"  
  
He took a deep breath, about to raise his voice to his high range for the maid's answer, when he was cut off by a sweet pure soprano, taking the woman's part. He kept drumming.  
  
  
  
"Now, my dear good man" she said, "Do not be perplexed;  
  
Before that you might bed with me you must answer questions six  
  
Six questions you must answer me and I will ask them all  
  
And you and I in a bed might lie"  
  
Roll me over next to the wall  
  
Roll me over next to the wall"  
  
The harmony on the chorus lines came without even a thought, managing to stay soft even while ringing through the room. Duo knew even before the song ended that he'd love this woman if he let himself.  
  
  
  
"What is rounder than a ring, And higher than the trees?  
  
What is worse than a woman's curse and what is deeper than the sea?  
  
Which bird sings first, which one best? Where does the dew first fall?  
  
And you and I in a bed might lie"  
  
Roll me over next to the wall Roll me over next to the wall."  
  
She matched his voice easily, tone for tone, throwing forth her challenge, and he answered. His gaze remained fixed on the wall in front of him, but he was aware of a warmth behind him and to his left, and her breath whispered on his ear.  
  
  
  
"The earth is rounder than a ring, and Heaven is higher than the trees  
  
The devil is worse than a woman's curse, and Hell is deeper than the sea  
  
The lark sings first, the first sings best, and earth is where the dew falls  
  
And you and I in a bed must lie"  
  
Roll me over next to the wall  
  
Roll me over next to the wall"  
  
  
  
Their voices soared on the last verse, tender and loving.  
  
He takes her by her lily-white hand and leads her down the hall  
  
He takes her by her slender waist for fear that she might fall  
  
He lays her on a bed of down without a doubt at all  
  
And he and she lie in one bed  
  
Roll me over next to the wall  
  
And he and she lie in one bed  
  
Roll me over next to the wall."  
  
And Duo Maxwell laid down his drum, cursed himself, turned, and kissed her before he even had a chance to see her.  
  
He woke up the next morning in a bed upstairs to find a note on his sheet. He had to ask the innkeeper to read it to him, and it said:  
  
"We'll sing again, I hope?  
  
Hilde." 


	5. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: If I owned 'em, this wouldn't be on FANfiction.net. I'd be making money off of it.  
  
Reviewers: Bryony first, because you're the only faithful reader I seem to have on this * hugs * Here's some more Quatre for ya. I'm afraid Hilde won't be in most of the rest of this, because all the action is ship-board. She'll be at the end, though, and a plot catalyst :o) The bad guys are more bad-guyish next chapter - you'll like it! Nezumi, Treize wioll be in it (not yet, though). And thanks for the French-help offers, but I'm a Montrealer! French, I can do - one reason why this isn't set during the Talavera campaign - my Spanish is terrible. Schachzug (which I refuse to try to pronounce!), I'd love a copy of that prayer. I seem to have misplaced the book I got it from, and I don't know if you got my email.  
  
Thanks to all of you!  
  
A.N. Just a few nautical concepts - A CPO is a Chief Petty Officer, and basically the highest rank an ordinary man can hold without being an officer, unless they do something really incredible. The gunwhale is the edge of a ship, sort of the top of the wall that goes around the top deck. (You know, the bit you barf over!). Time on board is kept by sounding bells, therefore two bells, six bells, etc are ways of measuring time, like a land o'clock.  
  
  
  
Part Four  
  
~ On board the H.M.S. Valiant, a few days after launch ~  
  
"Wotcher think of the new middy?"  
  
"Milksop."  
  
"'Asn't growed oop yet."  
  
Duo couldn't decide whether to be interested or irritated. Lieutenant Rat-Bastard Alex had found fault with everything and had assigned him an extra watch pumping, and he ached abominably and wanted to get his four hours of sleep before six bells sounded abd he was on watch again. On the other hand, having been stuck in the bilges, he'd not had the chance to form his own opinions of Winner yet. He decided on irritation.  
  
"Shut yer 'oles, lads, an' let me get some bloody sleep!" "Ooh, blasphemy, Maxwell, Alex'd have yer 'ead fer that!" "It's straight to Hell yer goin' Maxwell!"  
  
Duo gave up. Sleep clearly wasn't going to be an option this off- watch. He shifted slightly in his hammock to get the badly knotted rope to poke him someplace else, and settled for being interested. He listened as the conversation turned back the new middy. What was his name again?  
  
"Winner's wet behind the ears, mark my words." Ah. Winner. That was it. He could place the name, now that he thought about it. The Winners were a wealthy London family, with a fondness - he grinned - for fine jewelry and wine, very valuable indeed if you knew who to sell them to. He seemed to remember that Mr. Winner had captained his own ship in the Royal Navy before taking over his father's merchant fleet. He returned his attention to the conversation being shouted from various locations in the fo'c'sle, which, having firmly established Winner's youth and inexperience, had moved on to his merit as an officer.  
  
"Better 'n that whoreson Mueller."  
  
"Got - wotsit, fancy word, means he could do something, pot-something."  
  
"Potential?"  
  
" 'At's the one, Chang. All them books must be makin' yer head grow."  
  
"My head's quite big enough. But I agree." There was an almost wondering tone in the cook's voice. "He called me Mister. And said 'please'."  
  
At this statement, there was a general uproar, mainly consisting of assorted curses and shouts of 'Naw!' and 'Never!'. Chang refused to say anything more, turning back to the precious book he'd managed to keep in one piece, despite the jeers directed at something written by a frog. He found Voltaire's ideas fascinating.  
  
Duo mused. The general opinion was that Winner, even if he was a rich brat from London and had no idea how to command, would probably end up being a satisfacory officer. He turned over in his hammock as well as he could (earning a short shower of curses from the man above him, who was not at all happy about being on the receiving end of an elbow in the kidneys) and drifted off, putting the new middy firmly from his mind.  
  
  
  
Said midshipmen, at the end of the next watch, was decidedly regeretting having joined His Majesty's Navy at all.  
  
"Should've been a cavalry - blargh - man," he said to the ocean he'd just dumped his half-digested breakfast into. Beside him, Trowa shook his head.  
  
"No, you shouldn't have. Horses rock when you ride them, same as a ship. Up and down and side to side. You can get off them more easily, though. But the ground still feels like it's spinning." Trowa spared a glance at the towheaded figure bent over the gunwhale.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"You didn't have to add that last bit about the spinning." Quatre glared balefully at his shipmate.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"No, you aren't."  
  
Trowa said not a word, but didn't look Quatre in the eyes, either, preferring to refold the younger man's jacket over his arm. He'd grabbed it (fortunately it hadn't been buttoned) when Quatre had first turned green - the dark blue wool was near-impossible to keep clean even if the wearer wasn't seasick. Quatre straightened up, but didn't move away from the side. He opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by a mischevious voice from behind him.  
  
"Oh me, oh my, I heard the old man cry Oh me, oh my, I think I'm gonna die! Oh me, oh my, I heard the old man say I wish I hadn't taken this excursion around the bay!  
  
Woss the matter, man? The sky's blue, it's a bloomin' lovely day." Quatre turned to behold a low-ranking seaman with a mocking grin on his face, twirling the end of a long braid.  
  
Duo realised he'd not seen the poor seasick sod before, and the grin fell from his face as he spotted the officer's jacket Trowa was holding. He snapped to attention.  
  
"'Pologies sir! Jus' a bit o' fun, sir! Permission to continue on me way to the bilges, sir!" He stared at the man, who had to be Winner. Winner stared back, dumbstruck. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't recall anything about singing at an officer in the regulations. And the man had apologised, after all. The sailor was almost trembling - what on Earth was he expecting? He was as white as a sheet! Quatre was saved by Trowa's voice from beside him.  
  
"Attend your duties, Maxwell. This once we'll not report it. It won't happen again, will it? Carry on!"  
  
The colour rushed visibly back into the sailor's - Maxwell's, Quatre reminded himself - face.  
  
"Thank ye sir! Won't happen again, sir! Aye, sir!" Maxwell performed an infantry-worthy about-face and walked nimbly off, his braid bouncing behind him as he skillfully balanced his feet against the motion of the ship. Quatre turned.  
  
"Trowa. what. who was that?"  
  
Trowa's lips quirked slightly. "That was Able Seaman Duo Mawell. He's the best sailor on this ship - should be a CPO, if he didn't keep forgetting himself. If there's a storm he'll be in the rigging - he's far too valuable to waste on the pumps. Talented musician, too. You've not met him yet because he's been in the bilges."  
  
Quatre frowned. "I thought they rotated that duty?"  
  
"Usually they do. But for some reason Alex holds a grudge against the man."  
  
They watched thoughtfully as the sailor disappeared belowdecks, just as six bells sounded to indicate the changing of the watch. Trowa turned to leave, off-shift at last, but gave his friend one last word of advice.  
  
"Get his respect, Quatre. His and Yuy's. It's the best thing you can do - you won't find two better sailors to lead anywhere, and they've got the respect of the men. Win over those two, and you've got the crew." 


	6. Chapter Five

A.N.: Hello all! This is the first 'Duo' chapter not featuring a Great Big Sea song. gasp! Which is odd as I just saw both their Montreal concerts and actually met the band, so I could tell them how great they are in person ( For all I pride myself on words, I have a feeling I sounded somewhat like Quatre in this chapter. Oh well - still the best weekend of my life.  
  
Reviewers: Relwarc, yes, you missed an update - I have a list you can sign up for, just check my author page! (shameless plug there) Glad to see you're reading all of this. As for Alex getting fragged. wait and see :o) I might, or I may not. He's a right jerk in this fic, though. I don't like him very much. Bryony, thanks for the Trowa commentary. He's the hardest one to write, and I do see him as calm and competent - but NOT a mute, or autistic! When he wants to talk in the series, you can't shut him up! lol. Here's some 'bad guys being bad' for you, and some more cute Quatre. KNW - glad you like, especially the characterisations. They're always what I worry about most. (I see I'm in your favorites! Grin!). J.S - likewise about the favorites! And you aren't as shocked as I am, trust me! Maybe we could collaborate on one of the land campaigns, Talavera maybe? And I'm sorry Hilde's not going to be in this more - she IS cool!  
  
  
  
~On board the H.M.S. Valiant~  
  
Quatre mumbled something along the lines of 'gurblesmursh' at his attacker. It didn't work - the man kept shaking at his shoulder and whispering gibberish into his ear. As Quatre's brain slowly shook off the fogs of sleep, the words became intelligible. They still didn't make any sense, but at least they were words.  
  
"-have to come with me, now, wake up. Quatre, wake up."  
  
"Murphel?"  
  
"-important, I want - Quatre?"  
  
"Go 'way. Lem' sleep."  
  
"Quatre, you'll thank me for this later". With that, Trowa grabbed the side of the hanging bed and heaved, dumping his friend onto the hard deck. "Mueller and Alex are standing wheel-watch, nowhere near the bow. We won't get another chance."  
  
Quatre pondered this information, discarded words.  
  
"Miffle?"  
  
Trowa rolled his eyes, and rejected slapping his fellow midshipman in favour of simply grabbing his arm, hauling him up, and dragging him shirtless into the wardroom. Quatre protested weakly.  
  
"Trowa! It's the middle of the night. I'm cold. Let me at least get my jacket so that if Mueller sees us I won't be out of uniform on deck. He'll. nevermind."  
  
Trowa ignored the last part of Quatre's statement. "Go get your jacket then. But hurry. This is something I want you to hear."  
  
A few minutes later, awake and jacketed, the two arrived at the fo'c'sle, where Trowa halted them in front of the door, holding a finger up his lips.  
  
"I noticed the violin under your bunk. I thought you'd like this. He does it everytime he's awake enough."  
  
"What? Who?"  
  
"Listen."  
  
Quatre listened. He heard a squeezebox and a drum of some kind, different from any of the drums he'd heard before. It was immeasurably fast and primitive-sounding, and it drew him in. Someone was singing. He listened a bit longer, then turned to Trowa.  
  
"That's the same song he sang when I was still seasick! It's about a woman!" Mildly peeved, he listened more. It was a funny song, he was forced to admit. And Maxwell had a fine voice. "Is that Maxwell playing the drum, too?"  
  
"Yes." The corners of Trowa's eyes crinkled a little. "And Yuy on the squeezebox. Quite a pair."  
  
Quatre was well aware that his jaw was hanging open a little. To be able to coordinate drum and voice as well as Maxwell was doing took more than a little talent, and a lot of skill. Listening harder, he frowned.  
  
"Someone's coming." If someone caught them there, they'd be for it. Officers traditionally steered clear of crew quarters - there wasn't actually anything in the regulations about it, but it was not Done. Trowa swore under his breath, gaining a look from Quatre - officers and gentlemen didn't curse where they could be heard - and grabbed his friend's arm, dragging him into the shadows around the corner, where the music could still be heard.  
  
Whoever it was, he was quiet as he entered the fo'c'sle, closing the door behind him. Maxwell's voice didn't even waver at the newcomer, but kept going.  
  
Inside, Heero noticed the anonymous sailor slip into a corner and hunker down. He shrugged without letting his fingers slip on the box, figuring that if the man wanted to talk he'd be talking. Duo winked at him, telling Heero that he wanted the next song to himself, and the able seaman nodded silently. He was quite happy to let Duo pine over his missing love if he wanted to, and if his friend could sing about it less time was spent moping and yammering about her charms in Heero's ear.  
  
Duo let his bodhran rest on his knee and started to tell a story. The ballad was slow and beautiful, about a young lady who went walking in summertime and met with a knight.  
  
"Come live by the white moon  
  
That rules the strong tide.  
  
Climb up on me horse, love,  
  
And be my sweet bride."  
  
Heero's eyes, roving the room, were drawn to a commotion in the corner, as the unknown sailor emerged from the shadows and spoke up, breaking the song after the first chorus. His voice was cold.  
  
"Funny song for you to sing, Maxwell."  
  
"Why'd that be, 'Tenant Alex, sir?" Duo's voice was polite and properly respectful, but Heero, sitting close by his best friend's side, could see the way his fist was clenched about his tipper (A/N: a tipper's the drumstick).  
  
"Well, Maxwell, you're hardly a knight, are you?" When Duo refused to reply, Alex continued in a sardonic tone. "And that girl of yours. hardly the marrying sort, I'd say. I certainly had a good time with her. I do hope she could use that arm the next day. "  
  
  
  
Heero was just in time to catch Duo as the diminutive musician lunged, snarling, at the officer.  
  
"Ye rat-bastard, I knew 't'was you, I'll kill ye, s'not right hitting a lady, ye could've killed her, ye - "  
  
"Duo," Heero hissed , "shut up now, be quiet, that's an order, please, he'll have you for this one-."  
  
"Well, now Maxwell, you're hardly one to call me a bastard, are you?" The Lieutenant's voice was calm. "That must be why you like the whore so much - she must remind you of your mother." He stopped, considering, while Heero strained to hold Duo back. "Oh, I am sorry, Maxwell. I forgot - you don't know who your mother is, do you? Left you at the church. She probably knew just how you'd turn out."  
  
Roaring, Duo broke Heero's hold and was across the fo'c'sle in an instant. Alex held his ground, letting the sailor hit him once, just once, then smiled and laid out the much smaller man with one blow. Duo glared up at him from under his mates, who'd piled across him to stop him. He bared his teeth, speechless with rage. Alex rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Really, Maxwell. You do know striking an officer's a hanging offense." He turned smartly on his heel and left, leaving Duo sobbing on the floor.  
  
Outside, the two midshipmen watched the lieutenant stride away. Quatre turned to Trowa, aghast.  
  
"They can't hang him, can they? He was provoked! Alex started it!"  
  
"Lieutenant," the emphasis was clear in Trowa's voice, "Alex is a Naval Officer. His word, his oath, his honour are undoubtable. I know, you know, the sailors know. Captain Noventa knows what his lieutenant tells him. And Seaman Maxwell did strike an officer."  
  
"But- but-."  
  
"I know."  
  
The music was clearly over for the night. Quatre lay in his bunk, sleepless. He knew. Trowa knew. But their very having been there, eavesdropping and without permission, couldn't have happened. They couldn't defend the sailor without hurting themselves. He dreaded Mueller finding out.  
  
The next morning, Quatre carried out the most unpleasant duty he could imagine. Seaman Duo Maxwell was clapped in irons and thrown into the stinking brig, to be left alone in the dark to await trial.  
  
Quatre turned the key in the padlock and his agonized eyes sought out the terrified sailor's.  
  
"I'm sorry." 


	7. Chapter Six

Disclaimer: I own none of the contents except the way the words are put together. If I had enough money to be worth suing, I wouldn't be selling muffins.  
  
Little bit of explanation needed, as I can't make italics work on ffnet.  
  
- - - - - means a flashback, and * * * * * * indicates a scene change. Thanks!  
  
Shanty Chapter seven On Board the HMS Valiant.  
  
"Trowa?" Quatre toyed with the buttons on his sleeve. Trowa ddn't look up.  
  
"Your buttons will fall off if you keep doing that, you know. What's wrong?"  
  
"Trowa, I've been appointed counsel for Seaman Maxwell."  
  
"He's not guilty."  
  
"Well. I checked the regulations. Technically, he is. He struck first. And he struck an officer. I don't know if I can get him off."  
  
Trowa's voice was deadly serious. "He was provoked."  
  
"Yes. but how do we prove that? We shouldn't have been there. And Alex's word is more believable than Maxwell's."  
  
"We were there, though."  
  
Quatre looked at his feet. "We were, yes."  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"It's my arse on the line, Middy. You were away from your post."  
  
"It wasn't my shift!"  
  
Quatre tried to walk away, but Mueller's hand dropped heavily onto his shoulder. "You weren't supposed to be there, Middy. Officers don't go into the fo'c'sle. That's the enlisted man's territory, the only place they can be the pigs they are. If the captain finds out you were there, I get called to Captain's Mast. Not you, me." The first middy leaned over and hissed into Quatre's ear, his breath hot and wet. "You make a mistake, I'm the one who pays. And if I pay. so do you. D'you understand me, Midshipman Winner?"  
  
Quatre could hardly speak. "Yes, Sir."  
  
"Yes, Sir, what?"  
  
"Yes, Sir, I understand. I was never there, Sir."  
  
A fist slammed into the bulkhead next to Quatre's head.  
  
"Very good, Middy." Quatre's knees gave out as he watched the burly first midshipman leave.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Quatre shivered and rolled over in his bunk, Mueller's words still ringing in his head. He'd read the regulations, all right, and he couldn't see a way around it. Maxwell was going to be shot, and it would be his fault. His soul was damned if he didn't speak, if he condemned a man to death through his inaction. But if he spoke. he closed his eyes, but opened them again at the vision of Mueller's snarling face imprinted on his eyelids. If he spoke, Mueller would have his hide.  
  
Quatre lay sleepless through the night.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In Southampton, Hilde bid goodbye to her last customer and sat down for a drink, humming.  
  
"Adi doo adi doo a-day  
  
Adi do adi aydi  
  
He whistled and he sang 'till the green woods rang  
  
And he won the heart of a lady."  
  
She stared morosely into her mug.  
  
Another of the inn's girls rubbed a ring off of a tabletop. "Ah, Hilde luv, yer whistlin' gypsy rover's jus' fine. He's up in the riggin' somewheres, singin' 'is idiot songs t' th' gulls. Don't worry. Floor needs sweepin' though, if ye've nowt to do."  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
It was very dark in the cage in the hold that served as a brig. Prisoners weren't provided with any light - if a candle were to tip over, it could cause disaster on board a wooden ship. Duo Maxwell shivered in the damp air. He had sung to fill the darkness, but his voice had become raw, and so he kept silent.  
  
His eyes were closed to stave off the headache that came of trying to find shapes in the darkness, so he didn't see the hatch open or the young officer who came through it. Quatre made his way slowly across the hold to the brig. When he reached it, he reached through and gently tapped the prisoner on the shoulder.  
  
"Seaman Maxwell?"  
  
Duo started. "Wha'? Oh. Sir?"  
  
"Maxwell, I'm Midshipman Winner. I've been appointed to represent you." This was hard, thought Quatre. "You're in a lot of trouble, Maxwell, and I honestly don't know if I can get you out. I've heard about it from Alex. Can you give me your point of view on this mess?"  
  
Duo muttered something.  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"'E called 'er a whore, all right?" Duo's eyes flashed. "'E called Hilde a whore, and me a bastard son of a whore. And, yeh, she is, and yeh, I am, and a few other things besides, but Hilde's a lady finer 'n any of 'is fancy rich dames. She's stronger an' more beau'iful an' she sings like a lark." his voice trailed off, finishing in a whisper. "An' I luv 'er, God help me, I luv 'er."  
  
Quatre swallowed the lump that was in his throat. "So he provoked you, and you struck him."  
  
"Yeh. Yes."  
  
Quatre restrained a curse at the admission. He kept coming back to that - provoked or no, the man had struck Alex, and that was that. No way around it. Duo saw the look on the midshipman's face, and his heart sank. He dared to speak before being spoken to, and to hell with protocol. He was a dead man, and well he knew it.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Quatre snapped out of his reverie. "Yes, Maxwell?"  
  
"Sir, I. well. I - Sir, could ye do somethin' fer me? I can't write, an' Hilde can't read - she's clever as anyt'ing, sir, jus' never learned - but could ye write 'er a letter, from me, so she knows I 'aven't f'rgotten 'er, like? The man 'oo owns the inn she works at c'n read, an' 'e'll read it to 'er."  
  
Quatre thought for a minute, while Maxwell looked on anxiously. If he agreed to this, he'd be leaving behind the last vestiges of his father's stern injunction. Superior officers did not care about their inferiors - and one who was sure to be executed despite anything he could do, at that - enough to write letters to their mistresses for them. But then, his father didn't need to know.  
  
"Yes, I will."  
  
Later, he reread the letter Maxwell had dictated, that he'd written on the stationary he'd brought with him, with black ink, crossed out several times where Maxwell had changed his mind.  
  
"Dear Hilde,  
  
One of the Valiant's midshipmen is being kind enough to write this for me. Give him a kiss when he delivers it - name of Winner.  
  
I've had it, love. One of the lieutenants said some things, it doesn't matter what, so I hit him. I think you might have known him, along with a lot of the other ladies at the Rest. He's the one left those bruises on you. And yes, he deserved it, and I'd not be a man if I hadn't hit him, but the Navy doesn't look kindly on mere seamen who blacken a lieutenant's eye. Funny that. I joined the Navy so the king wouldn't hang me.  
  
I've not forgotten you, love. I couldn't forget my riddling lady fair. I used to think when I'd sailed and roved about long enough, I'd buy a little bit of land, and a pair of pigs, and come and marry you, and we'd have children. I never thought I'd stop in one place, not until I died, but I'd do it for you, I would. I love you."  
  
In the space under the letter, Maxwell had laboriously scrawled the only words he knew how to write. The ink under the M was smudged, and the D was backwards, and one of the l's was missing, but Maxwell had insisted on writing his own name. He'd kissed the letter and pressed it into Quatre's hands, and had watched wistfully as Quatre left, taking with him the candle and plunging the hold back into darkness.  
  
Quatre lay awake, alone in his quarters, wishing Trowa wasn't on duty so he could speak. He would have slept, knew he needed to, but the thought of facing Maxwell's trial the next day kept him awake.  
  
Duo didn't mind the dark, so much, this time. It meant the rats couldn't see his tears. Quietly, not wanting to hear the echo that reminded him of his solitude, he sang.  
  
"Oh, I'll come a-rollin' home,  
  
When my roving days done.  
  
And when I do I'll finally  
  
Settle down and never stray."  
  
(long)Author's Note: I am so very sorry for the delay in this. I've emailed everyone who's left me a review to let them know that this chapter's up - hope I didn't miss anyone. As an excuse, may I claim real life? I managed to get myself accepted to my first choice university (Memorial, in Newfoundland), so I'm moving halfway across the country in August, and been in plays, and spent a semester soaking up the friendship of the folks I'll leave behind. See, I'm a rover too. And it's to one of those folks I'm leaving behind I'm dedicating this chapter, because she nagged me and watched over my shoulder as I wrote the first part of this, and annoyed me, and gave me hugs, and basically gave me the kick in the butt I needed. So, Isa, this is your chapter of Shanty.  
  
Songs used: The one Hilde sings is an old song, called 'The Whistling Gypsy Rover". The version I have is by the Clancy Brothers. The one sung by Duo in the last paragraph is "Rolling Home", off the album by the same name, sung by the Irish Descendants. It's one of their originals, and thus is an anachronism, but ooh! Look! *brandishes poetic license* I have one of these.  
  
Reviewers: Wow, look at you all. I do hope you're still with me. Bryony, the reason this doesn't appear to be going anywhere is because this seems to be turning into two separate arcs. As for six chapters - they really aren't very long chapters :p. Deirdre (I love your name, btw, one of my fave fictional characters is a Deirdre), I'm sorry about the stress. I hope there's still some of you left! KNW, I notice you haven't started your historical fic yet - I hope you still want to, it sounds cool. Relwarc, I hope you don't miss this update, long as it's been in coming. Is there an email address I could let you know at next time? If there is, feel free to email me with it. Artificer Urza, I have to confess to not being to sure how Duo's going to get out of this. I'm like Quatre - I want him to, but can't see how. Dark vampire: Wow, I've never had an adoring fan before. I'm glad you like. Nips. is that a mouse? Cool! Gailstorum, I'm glad you like, and I'm glad you think it's original. Thanks. Gros minou. *hugs* 


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